


The Men From Stockholm

by Ingebjorg9



Category: Martin Beck Series
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Gen, Humor, Police, Stockholm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingebjorg9/pseuds/Ingebjorg9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a rainy Friday afternoon, the bored and very fed-up detectives of the Stockholm Serious Crime squad receive a phone call about a missing teenager. So begins yet another missing persons case... or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gloomy Friday

It was raining. The raindrops pattered relentlessly on the window. Outside, the city of Stockholm was a featureless grey blur. Inside, the three bored police detectives were beginning to get on each others' nerves.

Gunvald Larsson, who sat, immovable, behind the desk like a granite wall, scowled at Kollberg. Kollberg, whose chair was pushed slightly back from the desk, sighed deeply and gazed at the ceiling, as if transfixed by the ugly brown stain that showed where the damp was getting in.

"Well, if you've got a better idea, I'd like to hear it," he said, shifting his gaze back to Gunvald Larsson's glowering eyes. He considered Gunvald Larsson a bonehead and had little time for him. The feeling was mutual.

"It's out of the question!" his hefty colleague snapped. "A complete and utter waste of time, when we've got more important things to worry about. Next you'll be wanting me to send out the dog van. And for what? An insignificant little twerp who's no use to us, or indeed to anyone else."

He slammed his fist onto the desk and stopped to take a deep breath. The third man in the room took the opportunity to speak.

"I'm not sure, Gunvald," said Einar Rönn. "We might as well look like we're doing something useful. And it's possible that Svensson knows more than he's letting on."

Gunvald Larsson looked at him balefully.

"If you believe that, you must be as stupid as he is," he snorted. Rönn shrugged. For a few minutes the room went silent. Kollberg picked up a pen and doodled idly on the notebook in front of him. He wondered how much longer he had to sit here arguing with this lackwit, when what he really wanted to do was to go home and sweep his wife Gun into bed. Gunvald Larsson glared at Kollberg and thought longingly of the comfortable new armchair he had just bought and that was waiting for him in his living room. Rönn scratched the tip of his red nose and wondered what his wife was making for dinner.

Their contemplations were interrupted when the door opened and Detective Inspector Martin Beck stuck his head into the room.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" he asked. Before anyone could answer, his head was followed into the room by the rest of him. He stood leaning against the filing cabinet and looked at his three colleagues without much interest.

"Where's Melander?" he asked.

"Where do you think?" said Gunvald Larsson sourly.

"I saw him heading in the direction of the lavatory about half an hour ago," said Rönn. "He was carrying the Jespersson file."

"Hmm," said Martin Beck, pouring himself a glass of water from the carafe on the filing cabinet. Melander's ability to be in the lavatory whenever anybody was looking for him was as legendary as his near-photographic memory. Martin Beck drained the water from his glass and looked quizzically at his colleagues.

"What are you three looking so worked up about?"

Gunvald Larsson opened his mouth, but before he could speak Kollberg cut in.

"Svensson," he said.

"Oh," said Martin Beck.

"Having him shadowed is a complete waste of time!" Gunvald Larsson interjected. "The man knows nothing and has never led us to anyone of any consequence. He's just another pathetic drunk as far as I'm concerned. Why the hell is Hammar so interested in him anyway?"

Martin Beck shrugged.

"You'd have to ask him that. He's intent on bringing down that drugs racket in Rinkeby, that's all I know."

Gunvald Larsson looked like he was about to explode.

"And we're supposed to do that by tailing a miserable cur like Svensson? That's asinine!"

"You don't need to shout at me, I'm only telling you what little I know."

"And it's so unlike you to shoot the messenger, isn't it Gunvald?" added Kollberg, more than a little maliciously.

Gunvald Larson glared at Kollberg. He would have told him to shut the hell up had the telephone on his desk not rung at precisely that moment.

"Yes?" he snapped into the mouthpiece. Snatching the pen that was now lying idle in front of Kollberg, he began to make some notes. The others watched and listened with various levels of amusement.

"Disappeared? When?" said Gunvald Larsson.

"Oh, I see. Before dinner yesterday. Uh-huh." His blond eyebrows lowered in a frown until his eyes almost disappeared beneath them.

"She took what? Your brother's car? Oh, I see, your car, but your brother's new hat was in it?" He buried his head in his free hand. It was clearly taking him a great deal of effort to remain civil.

"And she's run away before? No, no I don't mean anything by that, I just want to know –

"Yes, all right. Give me your name and address and we'll look into it." He gritted his teeth and scribbled down some details.

"Yes, Mrs Lindström, somebody will come round as soon as possible. Goodbye." He slammed the telephone received back onto its cradle. The tension in his jaw was plainly visible.

"A missing girl, I presume," said Martin Beck.

"It's always a missing girl." Gunvald Larsson ripped the page he had been writing on out of his notebook and shut the book with a thud. "It seems that the teenage girls in this city are completely incapable of staying put."

"Well, Gunvald, I think you're more than capable of dealing with Mrs Lindström yourself," said Kollberg, jumping to his feet. "Gun will be expecting me."

He hastened to the door and caught Martin Beck's eye.

"Are you coming, Martin? You owe me a game of chess. Gun won't mind if you have a bite to eat with us."

Martin Beck thought for a moment, before deciding that he couldn't be bothered going home just yet. He nodded.

"Sounds fine, Lennart."

"I thought you'd prefer it to the alternative," said Kollberg dryly.

Gunvald Larsson and Rönn stared after them. Rönn got to his feet.

"Well, Gunvald, are you going to look in on Mrs Lindström?"

"Looks like I don't have a lot of choice, doesn't it?"

"Oh well, I'll see you on Monday, then." Mentally Rönn was already at home with his feet up, basking in the company of his wife and young son.

Gunvald Larsson put on his raincoat and went out to his car. Soon he was on his way to an address in Södermalm. He had little patience for this kind of thing, but even less trust in the patrol officers not to make a pig's ear of questioning the woman whose daughter had apparently disappeared without trace. His comfortable new armchair would have to wait for him a little longer.


	2. An Unexpected Swim

Martin Beck strolled through the streets of Gamla Stan. It had been a very pleasant evening at Kollberg's and, for once, he felt well-rested this morning. He was glad to be out of the house, and wondered what he was going to do all day.  
He crossed over to Riddarholmen and stood by the church for a few minutes while he lit a cigarette. The previous day's incessant rain had cleared overnight, leaving a sky streaked with blue. It had the potential to be rather a nice day. If it stayed dry, there was really no need for him to go home until evening. He could have lunch in a café, then perhaps stroll along the quaysides, watching the ships come and go. The idea filled him with something approximating happiness, and he carried on down to the water's edge.  
The waters of Riddarfjärden were calm this morning. Martin Beck stood and gazed towards the tower of City Hall, and along the shore, which was lined with trees and boat masts. At times like this, he thought, he could forgive Stockholm for its rain and its miserable overcrowded subway trains.  
As he stood watching the water, he noticed that he was not alone. A girl of about 18 was wandering further down the quayside. She looked somewhat distrait, and it was clear to Martin Beck that she hadn't seen him. He wondered where she had come from – she didn't look like she had been home for a while.  
At this point he was interrupted by a beggar asking him for some coins. Martin Beck handed him a krona that was sitting in his pocket, wondering what it was about himself that attracted waifs and strays.  
"Is that all?" said the tramp. Martin Beck caught the odour of cheap alcohol on the man's breath.  
"Yes, I expect it is," said Martin Beck, taking his police badge from his pocket. The beggar scowled and limped off, muttering under his breath about living in a police state. Martin Beck watched him go, until there was a loud splash from behind. Spinning round, he saw that the girl was now in the water. As she sank out of sight, he ran to the edge, tearing off his coat, and lowered himself into the freezing cold water of Riddarfjärden. He was glad now that he had always been a reasonable swimmer. Taking a deep breath, he dived under the surface, catching sight of the girl. He swam towards her, but had to surface for another breath, before plunging back down again and grabbing her. As he pulled her to the surface she put up no resistance. She was either unconscious or hadn't really wanted to drown.  
Shouting for help, he dragged the girl back onto dry land, where she lay in a soggy heap, coughing and spluttering. A man with a dog had rounded the corner, and he jogged up to them with a concerned expression on his face. When he saw what had happened, he said something about getting help, and ran off again. Martin Beck stayed put, suddenly aware of how cold and out of breath he was. He cast a glance at the girl on the ground. She was shaking with cold and had curled into a ball.  
Martin Beck took his coat and wrapped it round her. As he did so, she looked up at him. He was surprised by the sad, anxious expression in her eyes. It was unusual for someone so young to have such a haunted look about them, he thought. Perhaps it was drugs, or maybe she was from a bad home. You could never be sure these days.  
Out loud he said: "You're safe now."  
She nodded, but said nothing.  
"Would you mind telling me what all that was about?" he asked her.  
She bit her lip.  
"I'm sorry. It's just all so dreadful…"  
Quite what was so dreadful he didn't have the chance to find out. The dog walker arrived back, out of breath and with sweat trickling into his eyes.  
"I found some policemen," he panted.  
Martin Beck looked up. To his displeasure he saw that the policemen in question appeared to be Kurt Kvant and Karl Kristiansson. It would have to be these two, he thought. Of all the police on patrol in Stockholm this Saturday morning.  
He nodded to them.  
"I need you to give us a lift to the hospital," he said. "This young woman's been in the water and I think a doctor should look her over."  
Kvant looked at the sodden pair with disapproval, but didn't dare to say what was on his mind, namely that their wet clothes would ruin the newly-cleaned interior of the patrol car. Kristiansson merely stood there with his mouth hanging open, as if he'd never seen someone in wet clothes before.  
"Well?" said Martin Beck.  
"Yes sir," managed Kristiansson.  
"I think we have some blankets in the boot, Kalle," said Kvant, still thinking about his car's upholstery. Kristiansson nodded and trotted off, presumably in the direction of the car. Martin Beck helped the girl to her feet and began to lead her away, nodding his thanks to the dog walker, who was thinking that at least he now had an interesting story to tell his friends at the bar that night. Kvant followed, never taking his eyes off the wet trail that the inspector and the girl were leaving in their wake.  
Kristiansson was waiting at the car, which was parked round the other side of the church. It appeared that the pair had stopped for a cigarette when the dog walker rushed over to them shouting about people in the water. A couple of hastily-trampled cigarettes lay on the cobblestones by the car. Martin Beck took a blanket from Kristiansson, ignoring Kvant's dour gaze, and wrapped it round the girl, before pulling another one around himself. He guided the girl into the back seat, then got in beside her.  
It was a sombre ride to the Karolinska hospital. Kvant was clearly still worried about the effect on the upholstery of having two people in wet clothes sitting there. The girl said nothing. It suddenly dawned on Martin Beck that when he was finished at the hospital he would have to go home and change. The thought did not make him happy.  
They finally arrived at the hospital. Martin Beck told Kvant to wait outside while he and Kristiansson escorted the girl in. Kvant's face grew longer. Martin Beck suspected that he and Kristiansson had been planning to sneak away somewhere for a long and undisturbed lunch break, where they would smoke countless cigarettes and argue about horseracing. Well, it would just have to happen another day.  
They waited. Martin Beck sat down beside the girl and asked her name. She looked at him in surprise.  
"Klara," she mumbled.  
"Is there anyone we can contact for you, Klara?"  
She shook her head.  
"There's my brother in Solna, but I don't want to see him. He'll only start lecturing me all over again."  
Kristiansson shook his head and was clearly about to say something, until Martin Beck silenced him with a raised hand.  
“Are you sure? Something must have been bothering you to make you jump in the water like that.”  
Klara nodded.  
“Please don’t tell my brother. He’ll only be angry. I’ll be okay now.”  
Martin Beck nodded back. It wasn’t as if he could force her to speak to her brother.  
The doctor came to examine her, and bundled her into a wheelchair. As he was about to wheel her away, she grabbed Martin Beck’s arm.  
“Thanks,” she said. “You’re all right for a cop.”  
Martin Beck assumed this was high praise. He was under no illusions as to what the younger generation of Stockholmers thought about the police. Without a word to Kristiansson, he turned and walked back to the car.  
Soon, much too soon, he was home again.  
Putting his head round the front door he quickly ascertained that Inga was not at home. Good. He slipped into the bedroom and had soon shed his wet clothes, towelled himself off and put on a dry set of clothes. He swore under his breath as he realised that he had left his coat in the hospital with Klara. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped now. He took out another coat and left the house as quickly as he had come in.  
Now that he was dry and warm again, his brain had started to work as it normally did. Something had stirred in the back of his mind. Even though he was sure he had never met Klara before, he knew there was something familiar about her. He had a feeling he also knew where he would find the answer.  
The big police station was almost empty. It seemed to be preparing itself for the inrush of drunks and assault cases that would inevitably occur that evening. Martin Beck wandered down the main corridor toward the file archive room. The duty officer was very flustered to see him there on a Saturday, and even more so when presented with his request to view the last three months’ missing person files. Nevertheless, Martin Beck eventually retrieved the file he was looking for. The name on the cover said “Klara Norstedt”. The photograph inside was of a young woman who looked very much like the one he had pulled from Riddarfjärden two hours previously. She had been reported missing two and half months ago by her older brother Thomas Norstedt.  
Lost in thought, Martin Beck began the journey to his office. Turning the corner, he almost collided with Gunvald Larsson, whose face was like thunder. Something had made him very, very angry indeed.


	3. A Job For Skacke

Gunvald Larsson slammed a thick bundle of papers down onto his desk and crashed into his chair. Martin Beck chose to remain standing, and regarded him with one eyebrow slightly raised, as if in curiosity over what his colleague was about to do next.  
"Well?" he said.  
Gunvald Larsson snorted. The sound was not dissimilar to the noise a sneezing dog makes. Martin Beck's eyebrow climbed slightly higher.  
"Is this a police station or a nursery school? Why the hell doesn't anyone in this place do what they're supposed to?" Gunvald Larsson's hand hit the desk with a thump, and he glared up at his colleague. "And why the hell do I have to go digging through the archives to find files that I left sitting here on my desk last night? Who the devil has been in here messing around with my work?"  
"I really don't know." Martin Beck sank onto one of the guest chairs and let out a small sigh. "Perhaps you need to lock your door at the end of the day."  
"I would if the jobsworth at the front desk would give me the damn key! It's a good job none of this stuff is exactly secret, but if it had been then it'd have been my head on the block, wouldn't it?"  
"I'll have a word with the file clerks and get them to keep an eye on this. You're right, of course, people really shouldn't be taking documents from the offices without checking first."  
"No, they shouldn't." Gunvald Larsson glowered and shrugged off his jacket, settling his considerable bulk down into the chair.  
"What is all this, anyway? Is it to do with that girl from yesterday?"  
"Partly." Gunvald Larsson retrieved several pages of notes and spread them over the desk. On the first page he had written _Erika Lindström_ in large letters and underlined it several times. Copious notes followed. It seemed that Mrs Lindström had had plenty to say about her missing daughter.  
"It seems she's done this a couple of times before," said Gunvald Larsson. "I listened to her mother yammering on for an hour and a half – dear God, that woman loves to talk. When I could tear myself away, I came back here to have a look at what we already have on the girl. She's only seventeen, but she's apparently got a long history – shoplifting, illegal drinking, disappearing...”  
“And of course she has her mother’s car too. Has she ever done that before?”  
“The mother never mentioned it. She mentioned too many other things, but not car theft, so I suppose this is the first time she’s done _that_. I’ve already circulated the registration number, but it’s pointless if you ask me. I'm sure the little bint will come home when she finally feels like it."  
"Possibly," said Martin Beck. "You have a photo of her?"  
His colleague nodded and slid a small black and white print across the desk to him. Martin Beck picked it up and studied it. A fair-haired, slightly sulky-looking girl of sixteen or seventeen stared out of the picture at him.  
"That was taken in the summer; the family holiday in Skåne. Apparently there's an aunt and a couple of cousins living down there."  
"Could she be there now?"  
"More than likely." Gunvald Larsson grunted and folded his arms. "Our esteemed colleagues in Malmö are no doubt searching for her as we speak, but I doubt they're exactly confident of finding her either."  
"No, I’m sure they've already got plenty to deal with."  
"And the last thing they need is to go chasing after yet another kid from Stockholm who fancies an unscheduled holiday down south. Perhaps if we're really lucky she's gone to Denmark. Maybe she'll turn up in a den in Copenhagen, along with all the other drug-addled teenagers we've lost track of. Then the Danes can deal with them."  
"Hmmm." Martin Beck decided he wasn't going to be drawn on the subject. Instead, he passed Gunvald Larsson the Klara Norstedt file. "Do you know anything about her?"  
Gunvald Larsson opened the file and leafed through its contents, his face betraying a complete lack of interest in the whole subject. He unclipped the photo of Klara and stared at it.  
"Don’t remember this one. Decent-looking girl, I suppose. Doesn’t look like the usual little tramps we get here. Why are you interested in her?"  
"Because I pulled her out of Riddarfjärden a few hours ago."  
Gunvald Larsson's eyebrows shot up.  
"She was fine," Martin Beck continued. "The thing was, she didn't want me to contact her brother, who’s apparently the only one who noticed she was missing."  
"Probably hates him. I'd bet next month’s wages that's why she ran away."  
"It's possible. But I think someone should speak to the brother – discreetly, of course. There's something odd about this. For instance, where are their parents?"  
Gunvald Larsson shrugged and suppressed a yawn.  
"Damned if I can answer that. But I bet I know who can find out."  
He picked up the phone, dialled an extension and waited for the owner to pick up.  
"Skacke? Come in here. We've got a job for you."  
A couple of minutes later Benny Skacke let himself into the room and stood staring at the two more senior officers.  
“Yes?”  
“Stop gawping and sit down, Skacke,” said Gunvald Larsson. “We’d like you to go and find out about someone for us.”  
Twenty minutes later, Skacke found himself on a subway train to Solna, puzzling a little over his unexpected new mission. Still, he thought, it was infinitely preferable to the traffic reports he’d been slogging over beforehand, even if it did mean reporting to Gunvald Larsson. Skacke thought he could cope with that tolerably well.  
Back at the station, Martin Beck had already left, deciding that he would after all find a quiet cafe and have a small meal. In the office, Gunvald Larsson dropped several files into a drawer, slammed it shut and locked it, frowning all the time. Pulling on his coat, he stamped out of the building, got into his car and drove home, where he poured himself a large brandy and ensconced himself in his new armchair for the rest of the afternoon with his favourite Sax Rohmer novel. To missing teenage girls he was determined not to give another thought.  
When the phonecall came, therefore, there were no detectives immediately available. The duty officer wrote a quick note and left it under the paperweight on Gunvald Larsson’s desk. For a minute or two he worried whether or not to phone him at home, and had just decided that maybe he would when a drunk was brought in kicking and screaming. The officer hurried to help and had soon forgotten about the phonecall and the note, which sat like a little timebomb on Gunvald Larsson’s desk, waiting for his return.


	4. The Man in the Raincoat

The man in the dingy raincoat shuddered. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he strode into the headwind that gusted down Sveavägen. He didn't like this. He didn't like it at all. It had been one thing to have been a simple messenger for the man in the third-floor office, ferrying letters and oddly-shaped packages around for him. He hadn't needed to know anything about what was going on behind the scenes, and that was exactly how he'd preferred it. But now he had seen too much, far too much. He kicked himself for his own curiosity. Why had he stuck his nose in where it wasn't needed? He couldn't forget what he'd seen, and he had no idea what he was going to do about it.

He knew he couldn't incriminate himself, he didn't have the courage. He also couldn't risk the wrath of his strange and capricious master. Therefore, marching into a police station and spilling his guts was absolutely out of the question. Something had to be done, but he cringed at what the cost would be to himself.

Near Rådmansgatan station he pushed his way into a crowded bar and bought himself a whisky. This was shortly followed by another, and then another. Finally, after a fourth had found its way down to his stomach, he began to feel calmer and came up with what could be described as a plan. Swaying slightly, he wandered out of the bar and took the subway home.

Several hours later, when he woke up slumped over the Stockholm telephone directory, it took his bleary mind several moments to recall what he had being doing before falling into an alcohol-fuelled doze. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and his heart began thumping in his chest as he remembered his plan. To moisten his mouth, which felt like sandpaper, he poured himself a glass of the homemade aquavit from the bottle he kept under the sink and knocked it back. He found that this fortified him tolerably well, and with only slightly shaking hands he opened the directory and began searching for the number he needed.

It didn't take long to find what he was looking for. He was about to pick up the phone and dial when a realisation hit him. What if the call could be traced? That would put him right in it.

Grabbing a notepad, he scrawled down the number and tore out the page, before making his slightly wobbly way out the door and down the stairs. There was a public phone on the corner, just beside the grocery. He could safely call from there.

Squinting at his note in the dim light from the streetlamps, he dialled the number and held his breath. The ringing went on for a long time, until eventually a man's groggy voice answered.

"Beck here."

"Hello," he mumbled through the handkerchief he had wrapped around the mouthpiece. "Is that Inspector Martin Beck?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"It's not important. I have some information that might be of interest to you."

"What sort of information?"

"It's about Hans Edengren."

" _Who_? Look, who is this? It's half past two in the morning. If this isn't important I'm going back to bed."

"Just listen to me, Inspector. It is important. It could be a matter of life and death. Edengren is mixed up in a lot of very dodgy stuff. At first I thought it was just drugs or something. But it's worse than that, much worse."

"Go on..."

"I can give you an address. Odengatan 12b. I've seen some awful things there, and I'm afraid it'll get worse. That poor soul..."

There was a click and the line went dead. He had forgotten to put more money in, and now he had been cut off. He swore viciously, then calmed himself. At least he had told the Inspector the gist of what he'd wanted to say. Hopefully the police would take the matter seriously, and his name would never be involved.

He slouched his way back up the street to his flat, had another glass of aquavit, lay down on the bed and fell fast asleep.

Meanwhile, Martin Beck stood, bewildered, staring at the phone in his hand. What had that been about? And why had the nameless caller been cut off so suddenly? He glanced at the hurried notes he'd scribbled during the short conversation, and still couldn't make much sense of it. What could possibly be going on at Odengatan 12b that the fellow had found so disturbing? Perhaps more importantly, how did he know about it to begin with? Martin Beck rubbed his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

Inga interrupted his train of thought by sticking her head around the door.

"What's happening? Why are people phoning in the middle of the night?"

Something about her tone of voice irritated Martin Beck more than he could reasonably explain.

"I don't know," he said. "Go back to sleep."

Inga gave him an injured look and went back to the bedroom. Martin Beck lay down on the sofa and pulled a blanket round his body. Lying back in the darkness he tried to make sense of the phonecall. It would probably be something to investigate in the morning, he thought. On the other hand, it could just as easily be a drunken insomniac who thought it would be fun to prank a police officer in the middle of the night. Perhaps he should look at having his number removed from the directory.

He yawned and pulled the blanket tighter around himself, hoping that sleep would soon overtake him again. For reasons he was not entirely sure of, his mind drifted back to Klara Norstedt. The dark, hopeless look in her eyes. The hints in her missing person's file that all was most certainly not well at home. He tried to picture her face again, but for some reason it kept blurring the image of the girl that Gunvald Larsson was investigating. Erika Lindström. At that very moment they were both out there, although presumably not together, wandering, homeless, easy prey for the sort of men who look for girls in such situations.

Martin Beck's eyes closed and he drifted off into an uneasy dream where he kept catching glimpses of a blonde girl as she disappeared around corners and through doors. Every time he thought he was catching up with her she eluded him again, and a phone kept ringing somewhere far away, but he could never work out where.

He woke, bleary-eyed, a few hours later, unhappily acknowledging that the disturbance in the early hours had effectively ruined his entire night's sleep. He shuffled into the kitchen and began making some coffee, looking out at the early light that was spreading over Stockholm. It looked like being another grey day. He sighed and contemplated his day's work.

Unknown to him, at that moment a man in a raincoat was hurrying up Sveavägen, his hands buried in his pockets, resolute in spite of the pounding in his head.

He stopped at a door and rang a buzzer. In a few moments he was let in and he hurried up to the third floor, where his feared employer awaited him.

The door to the street swung shut behind him. It was a perfectly ordinary door. The only thing setting it apart was its plaque, bearing the legend _H. Edengren_.


End file.
